


In the Skin

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king sent for Jon an hour after supper, just as the sun was setting and fresh storm clouds were gathering for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> Written for [Comment Fic Meme #5](http://gotexchange-mod.livejournal.com/1855.html?thread=717631#t717631) at [](http://got_exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**got_exchange**](http://got_exchange.livejournal.com/), and the prompt _Jon/Stannis, scars_.

The king sent for Jon an hour after supper, just as the sun was setting and fresh storm clouds were gathering for the night. It was snowing again, soft flurries that caught in Jon's hair and snagged in the thick fur bristling at his collar, the chill sharpened by shrieking gusts of wind, and Jon shivered as he trudged across the yard behind litte Devan Seaworth, folded his hands into his sleeves as he stamped mud and slush from his boots outside the tiny chamber that passed for Stannis' solar.

"You're to go straight in, my lord," Devan said anxiously, shifting his weight from foot to foot, still unused to the cold and half-bowing out of habit. "His Grace is expecting you."

The room was brightly lit but barely warmer than the air outside, and the maps stacked on the table fluttered quietly as Jon closed the door. He found Stannis seated in one of the narrow chairs beside the hearth, his body facing the fire at a wide angle, his shoulders slumped, shifting as if his hands were busy with something Jon couldn't see. They were alone; Devan had not followed Jon inside, and Melisandre was not in her usual place, hovering nearer to Stannis than his own shadow. One of her mantles hung over the back of the other chair, the train spilling onto the floor like a plush, red curtain.

"You wished to see me, Your Grace?" 

"Yes," Stannis said, without turning around. The firelight sallowed his skin, honed the lines of his profile into harsh, prominent edges; he was not a handsome man, probably hadn't been even in his youth. "Tell me more about these mountain men of yours."

Jon hesitated for a moment, working his fingers free from the stiff leather of his gloves. He'd given Stannis everything he knew earlier; he never visited the clans with his father, only saw their chieftains on the rare occasions they traveled to Winterfell. "They are strong, hardy men, Your Grace, protective of both their honor and their gods, but they are poor, and few amongst them can read or write. South of the Neck, they'd be regarded little better than smallfolk." He stepped further inside the room, leaned his hip against the table of maps. "I fear you may find them backward and coarse."

Stannis snorted. "If I needed men who could read and write, I'd sail to Oldtown and muster the Citadel's acolytes. At least the Seneschal wouldn't bore me to death with feasts and daughters."

"You said you could endure some pipes and porridge."

"It's not the porridge that concerns me, Lord Snow, but the time I will waste eating it," Stannis grumbled, his chair creaking as he hunched closer to the fire. "I want to know these men will keep their word before I lose two moons wallowing across goat tracks on the back of a mule."

"I don't know them well, but my father did not think them inconstant. I believe they will fight for you, if you broach the subject properly."

"Properly?" Stannis asked, turning enough to narrow his eyes. "Explain yourself."

Jon hesitated again, laying his gloves atop the maps as he searched for the right words. "The Iron Throne means as much to them as it does the wildlings, and the wars to claim it likely less, now that Robb is dead. They will understand your duty to take King's Landing from the Lannisters, but they will not leave their homes and hearths for that alone."

"Tell me, Lord Snow. What _will_ rouse them?"

"The threat of Ironborn in Deepwood Motte," Jon said, moving closer to the fire. Stannis had not invited him to sit, but there was a draft near the door, icy fingers creeping under his cloak with every new press of wind. "House Bolton's treachery, and the death of my father." He paused beside the chair housing Melisandre's mantle, rested his hand on the curved back without touching the fabric. "His grandmother was of Clan Flint. They will not have forgotten that, nor the way he acted as their liege. He rarely meddled in their affairs, and he took care to respect their laws and customs when he did."

Stannis sighed heavily, a muscle twitching along the line of his jaw. The silence stretched on long enough that Jon worried he had somehow given offense, until Stannis shifted slightly, and Jon noticed he was holding a bloody scrap of cloth against the inside of his arm.

"Are you injured, Your Grace?"

"It's nothing." Stannis lifted the cloth, revealing a jagged cut the length of Jon's thumb. "A scratch. I was careless when removing my mail."

"Maester Aemon once told me even the smallest wounds must be tended this far north. Cold air thickens the blood, and thick blood festers easily."

"A pity Maester Aemon has disappeared." Stannis glared at Jon sharply, but then he sighed again, more resigned than irriated, and waved for Jon to carry on, shaking his head as Jon shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over the chair.

Jon was no maester or battle surgeon, but he knew enough to wash the wound with water and soak a clean cloth in boiled wine. Stannis fell silent again, frowning and staring at the fire, and Jon watched him as he cut new strips of flannel from the spare sheet used to make the first, as he poured half a flagon of wine into the stew pot and waited for it to heat. He looked tired and worn thin, had tight lines around his mouth and long shadows underneath his eyes; Jon wondered if this was how life had been for Robb as King in the North, if his brother had been this frustrated and sleepless before the Freys chopped off his head, this hounded by duties and obligations.

The wine bubbled over with a slow hiss, and Jon pulled it from the fire with the tail of his cloak wrapped around the handle. It was easier to just kneel between Stannis' legs, rather than stand over him or stretch across his lap from the edge of the other chair; Jon settled with his elbow propped on Stannis' thigh and Stannis' hand tucked against his side, and he half-expected Stannis to balk at the closeness and familiarity, but Stannis didn't even sigh or narrow his eyes. He almost seemed to lean into it, the tension draining from his shoulders the longer Jon worked; he curled his fingers into Jon's doublet when Jon reached for the wine, relaxed his arm when Jon turned it toward the fire to shed more light on the wound.

It looked as clean as anything ever did at the Wall, barely reddened and no longer bleeding, and Jon rinsed it and dressed it quickly, then set about tying a decent bandage, his fingers clumsy with the cold and slipping over Stannis' wet skin. Stannis had a knotted scar below the fold of the cloth, a raised lump nearly the size of a copper Star, and he stiffened when Jon accidentally brushed it with his thumb, made an oddly soft noise in the back of his throat.

"Sorry, Your Grace," Jon said, suddenly embarrassed, heat burning in his cheeks like the coals in a forge, but Stannis was already watching the fire again, his eyes half-closed and a strange twist to his mouth.

He had another scar above the crease of his elbow, a thin and silvery furrow that curved as it disappeared beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his doublet, and yet another on the back of his other hand, a narrow spiderweb of lines that reached for the bones of his wrist. There was a small crease just under his chin, perhaps made by the tip of a spear, and a longer, thicker line following the sweep of his collarbone, visible where his doublet was unlaced at the neck.

"Are you finished staring, Lord Snow?"

"Sorry," Jon said again, careful not to meet Stannis' eyes. He tried to move away, but found Stannis had stretched his legs at some point, bent them in a way that left Jon no room to retreat. "I was just -- you have many scars."

Stannis huffed softly. "War makes scars. This is my third, though I spend most of the first behind stone walls."

"Most?" Jon had heard the tale told often enough, how his father had forced Mace Tyrell to dip his banners. "I thought you were at Storm's End when the Rebellion started."

"I was," Stannis said, his voice quiet and gruff at once. "Tyrell sent a small force ahead to scout the area, and we rode out to meet them. Foolishly, I might add. I was set against it, but I let Ser Wylde sway my judgment. He felt we were ill-provisioned for a siege, and my brother -- Renly was a sickly child, and Wylde worried a year of short rations would be the end of him."

The fire crackled, smoking and sparking as one of the logs split open, and Jon watched as the flare of light played over Stannis' face. He had another scar just below his ear, a tiny cut similar to the one beneath his chin.

"We had them outnumbered, but all the fighting men had marched off with Robert," Stannis continued, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth. His hand caught in Jon's sleeve, almost cradling Jon's elbow, and Jon realized that Stannis didn't want him to leave. _He is lonely. He has no one to talk to, likely hasn't for many years._ "My garrison was naught but greybeards and green boys. It was quickly clear we would not prevail, so I sounded the horn. I took this during the retreat." He brushed his collar aside, showing a pinkish knot where is neck curved into his shoulder. "I should have thrown Wylde in a cell then, for all the good he did me later."

"And this?" Jon pointed to his own chest, mirroring the stark line that crossed Stannis' collarbone.

"The Greyjoy Rebellion," Stannis said tiredly. He went quiet for a moment, then snorted under his breath. "My brother loved to boast about sacking Lordsport and besieging Pyke, but ships won that war, much like Daeron's conquest of Dorne. If I hadn't smashed Victarion's fleet at Fair Isle, he would've sailed around and taken Robert's host in the rear while they were still hassling fishwives on the docks."

It was darker and thicker than the others, looked like something made by a solid stroke from an axe, and the skin around it was thin, pulled taut in a way that reminded Jon of his burned hand, and how it often throbbed stiffly in the mornings, until he worked his muscles and rubbed balm into his joints. He meant to ask Stannis if it pained him, especially now, this far north, where the weather was always cold and damp, but the words stuck in his throat; he reached for the scar instead and traced its raised edge with the tips of his fingers.

Stannis caught Jon by the wrist, pressing his thumb to the stutter of Jon's pulse. "Take your leave, Lord Snow. I am not myself tonight. I would say the same for you, but your sworn brothers tell me you had a wilding woman beyond the Wall."

"I did." Jon knew he should let that shame him, as much as the way he was sprawled in Stannis' lap, his free hand resting on Stannis' thigh, and the sickly heat was there, burning beneath his jaw and prickling at the back of his neck, but the hollow ache of Ygritte's death was keener, twisting like a knife between the ribs. "I loved her."

Stannis scoffed. "Love is for milkmaids and knights still sleeping under hedges. I believed you to be neither."

 _He is lonely_. Jon thought of Ygritte, and how his chest pulled tight whenever he heard Pyp and Grenn laughing in the yard, whenever Satin brought him a meal with a smile that didn't quite touch his eyes. _Far lonelier than I am_. It was no secret that Stannis' marriage was strained, and it was also plain that his only friend was Lord Seaworth, who had traveled to White Harbor and not returned, who Stannis spoke of with taut, quiet words that seemed to hang on the well of his lip. Jon had not been this close to someone in what felt like years; he wanted suddenly, wanted in a way that should've died with Ygritte, and he pressed closer to Stannis, despite the sharp pangs in his knees and the dark look in Stannis' eyes.

"Lord Snow." Stannis' voice was a warning, but he still held Jon's wrist, and he hadn't changed the caging bend of his legs. He was hard, his cock an insistent curve against Jon's belly, and he made a rough, startled sound as Jon brushed it with his hand, as Jon leaned up for a kiss.

It was clumsily done, the angle awkward with Jon still on his knees, with Stannis hunched in his chair, his body tensing as if he meant to pull away. Jon inched closer and tilted his head, letting his teeth catch against Stannis' lip; Stannis made another noise, a thing Jon could feel as much as hear as it rumbled up from Stannis' chest, and then Stannis slid his hand over Jon's waist, released Jon's wrist to fit the other under Jon's chin, his thumb digging at the hinge of Jon's jaw.

"What is it you want, boy?"

"I want to be warm again," Jon admitted, his vows slipping through his fingers like water. _Perhaps it doesn't matter. There is nothing here but ice and snow and death, and sour men whose oaths chafe like a yoke, whether sworn to the king or the Night's Watch._

Stannis sighed, turning his hand until his thumb was pressed to Jon's mouth. "This changes nothing. Tomorrow I still ride for the mountains, and when I return I will still expect the disputed castles to be manned and repaired."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Quiet," Stannis snarled, kissing Jon again, his hand now at Jon's throat. It was different than before, harder and faster, his fingers bruising into Jon's side as he drew Jon's tongue into his mouth. He smelled of leather and sweat and the frozen northern wind, in a way that reminded Jon of Winterfell, of _home_ , of sparring with Robb and laughing with Arya and begging Bran to come down from the castle walls; he wanted to crawl in Stannis' lap and bury his hot face in the curve of Stannis' neck, but Stannis moaned quietly, his breath hitching as his cock rode against Jon's belly, and then it was nothing but heat and want once more, and Jon found himself tugging at Stannis' laces, his fingers fumbling with the knot as he slid his mouth over Stannis' jaw, kissed the tiny scar below Stannis' ear.

The fire hissed behind them, finally burning low, casting their skin in shadows rather than light. Stannis moaned again as Jon pulled his cock from his breeches, the noise broken and ragged, catching in his throat as he tried to swallow it down, and Jon curled his fingers around it, stroking from base to tip, his hand shaking with both nerves and need, his cheeks flushing hotter and brighter at the intent way Stannis was watching. He brought his hand up to Jon's face, dragging his knuckles down the line of Jon's jaw, running his fingers over the point of Jon's chin; he brushed his thumb across Jon's mouth again, nudging until Jon's lips parted, taking a sharp breath as Jon kissed it, as Jon sucked it in and wet it with the flat of his tongue.

He tasted of the dust from the maps and a little like wine, and Jon did not miss how his mouth fell slack and his eyes grew narrow and dark, how his hips developed a restless shift that pushed his cock harder against Jon's hand. Jon had never done such a thing, but Ygritte had done it to him, enough for Jon to know what he liked and what Stannis might, and the idea itched at something just beneath Jon's skin, fanned the sparking heat burning in the low of Jon's gut. He gave Stannis' cock another stroke, slowing his hand to settle at the base, then leaned down with an anxious breath and drew it into his mouth.

It was a strange thing at first, the bitter-salt taste and the queer weight and pressure against his tongue, the instinct to close his throat when it slipped in too far and too fast and bumped past the roof of his mouth, but he found an easy rhythm soon enough, dragging his lips along the length as he hollowed his cheeks and swirled his tongue. Stannis was silent above him, so still Jon would've thought he'd stopped breathing if not for the slow tremor building in his thighs, and Jon rested his hands there just to feel it, then pushed them underneath Stannis' doublet to run his palms across the planes of Stannis' chest. He was lean and strong at once, better muscled than Jon expected from the gaunt set of his face; Jon mapped each line and angle with careful fingers, finding another scar just below his nipple, yet another hidden in the sparse hair arrowing away from his navel. 

Jon visited the scar that started all of this, the heavy one that cut a stripe across Stannis' collarbone; it was shorter than it had looked through the neck of Stannis' doublet, less raised and smoother to the touch, and Stannis made a rough noise as Jon explored it with his fingers, his hand knotting into Jon's hair, his hips snapping up harshly, thrusting faster than Jon's mouth was working, deep enough that Jon half-feared he would choke. His lips and tongue felt swollen and raw, his mouth slick with spit clear to his chin, and a dull ache was spreading through his jaw, a delicious twinge that sparked and flared each time Stannis moved. His own cock throbbed, straining against the placket of his breeches; he dropped one hand between his legs, rubbing the hard line through the fabric before scrabbling at his laces, and Stannis moaned again, louder than before, as if it pleased him to see Jon thus -- kneeling, touching himself, his mouth flushed and wet and stretched around Stannis' cock.

Stannis tugged on Jon's hair, suddenly and sharply, pulling Jon away from his cock, spending over his own hand as he used the other to drag Jon up and into his lap. Jon gasped as his cock pushed against Stannis' belly, the pressure a sweet shock he could feel down to his toes, and he buried his face in Stannis' shoulder as Stannis' hand wrapped around him, trying to muffle the desperate sounds spilling from his mouth, hide the feverish blush burning in his cheeks. Stannis allowed it for a moment, then tipped Jon's head up for a kiss, grumbing into Jon's mouth as curved his hand over the swell of Jon's arse.

"Move, boy. I won't do all the work."

Jon rolled his hips, tentatively at first, needing more friction but afraid of losing his balance and falling to the floor, and he tried not to think of how me must look as he moved -- writhing in the king's lap, thrusting his cock into the king's hand, everything warm and wet with the king's seed -- because he was near enough to the edge as it was. He'd been half-hard since he first knelt between Stannis' legs, as much as he'd tried to ignore it; this was too much all at once after so many frozen nights alone, and Stannis was looking at him again, watching him, leaning back just enough to see Jon's cock as it slid in and out of his fist.

Stannis tightened his hand and shifted Jon closer, pressing a kiss below Jon's ear, setting his teeth against the soft skin just beneath Jon's jaw. Jon spent with a slow shudder, moaning and digging bruises into Stannis' shoulders with both hands, his eyes closed and his thighs shaking, his hips still twitching toward the slick heat of Stannis' palm. His release winded him completely, left him wrung out and gasping in a way he'd nearly forgotten; he was still breathless when Stannis kissed him again, when Stannis finally nudged Jon from his lap and reached for the flannels on the floor.

His doublet was a mess, a sticky stain spreading across the front, the fabric wrinkled where Jon had clawed it with his fingers. He wiped the worst of it away with an irritated twist to his mouth, then passed the cloth to Jon as he sighed and found his feet.

"Come, Lord Snow. I want to look at those maps again."

Stannis' voice was clipped, rough and ringing with dismissal, and Jon felt embarrassed in a way he couldn't put into words, a sickly weight settling in his stomach as he straightened his doublet and tied his breeches. He joined Stannis at the table, his jaw still aching and his legs still weak at the knees, and he tried to focus on what Stannis was asking, at the different shadows and whorls on the map.

"You said your guides can lead me to this Norrey's keep, but I would prefer not to march blindly."

"The trail starts here," Jon said, pointing at the map. "Between Hoarfrost Hill and Icemark."

Stannis moved in behind Jon, his hand at Jon's hip and his mouth at Jon's ear. "Show me again," he said quietly.

Jon covered Stannis' hand with his own, rubbing his thumb over the scar there, smiling when Stannis' lips found the curve of his neck.


End file.
